Shades of Blue
by manhattan martini
Summary: The floor is cold beneath his feet and it reminds him of home. — GreenRed


**notes:** Started tinkering around on my old game again. Nostalgia and melancholy, of course, mercilessly slaughtered me.

* * *

_shades of_  
**BLUE****  
**

…

…

**08.**

"Why are you doing this?" Green asks, and points towards the heavy, steely door behind his small shoulders. The air is pleasant in the wide room, the walls stripped of objects and irregularities - Green wrinkles his nose when the placidity of it all reminds him of home, of Pallet's inability to grow, to expand. It reminds him of a town that never quite moves, instead keeping a pace so slow and so annoyingly irregular just to make sure it is not be left behind. "Get out, loser."

His voice sounds weak, so he coughs and tries again, "Not like you'll ever win against me anyway. You can just leave, you know. I won't mind," he croaks, smugness in his voice but not really _there_ like usual, "I promised you, didn't I? I promised it'd be the last time I'd ever lose against you."

Green doesn't know what pisses him off more: if it's the fact that his voice sounds hollow with nervousness or the fact that Red only stares blankly at him, a fake smile playing at the corner of his lips (he can't remember the last time he saw him smile). He decides it is none, because he is the best of the best and, _really_, he trusts himself enough to win.

So when he doesn't, and the blood from his Pokémon is inking the white floor, he just shrugs, grabs his bag and steps out.

He tries to say _I pity you_, but what comes out is: "We were _never_ friends."

Green instantly cringes; it's not that he regrets saying it, but it just isn't the truth. And to be honest (for once), Green feels like he owes him at least _that.

* * *

_

**07.**

The grass is green, but once he ducks his head and blinks again, all that his gaze meets is darkness and pointy highlights of moist rocks. Perhaps it's the fact that the cave is wide and unrolling before him, or perhaps it's because the darkness of the corners isn't enough for him to hide from the world, but Green is ridiculously convinced that he is headed for his demise.

He scoffs at the stone walls beside him, and kicks a rock. It goes flying, hits the floor twice (or thrice, he doesn't care to count), and lands on one of the many water puddles in the floor. The water is brown and splashes his pants; he wipes the dirt out while he walks, particularly unaware and careless.

Victory Road – in his obviously right opinion – is a name unfitting of the thrill he never gets to feel while he strolls through the silent maze. The sun is pale in his skin when he gets out, stomping tiredly towards the building that crawls and scratches towards the clouds, towards the azure sky.

His heart jumps slightly in his chest when he smirks at his spotless, pristine reflection on the glass doors, because he figures that his leer will be the last thing Red will see before losing. And that fills him with joy.

* * *

**06.**

The door to the last gym is closed, stuck with a lock against a bricked wall. He leans against a window, covers his eyes with his palms so that he can gaze into the dimness inside. It's useless, so he clicks the button on his belt and decides to walk the path of mindful destruction - it's not a door of all things that is going to stop him from _winning_.

When he orders one of his Pokémon to stomp down the door, the dust takes a few minutes to settle. When the earth stops burning into his clear eyes, he scans around the area attentively. There's a forgotten black shirt on the floor, behind a destroyed statue, with a big R on the back. The letter's the color of blood, the color of slaughter, and he feels as if he has seen it somewhere else, somewhere before.

It smells just like in Cinnabar's mansion: dirt and dust and secrets left unrevealed beneath boring walls and high windows. Green figures, after walking around the debris and the once majestic columns (he might be young but he appreciates the splendor of a winner), that the leader is gone.

There is a case of glass, very clean, very new, very bright and contrasting against the black chaos inside. There is a badge below the crystal, and beside it lies a small emptiness, a tiny hole in the cushion. He thinks to himself that perhaps someone has taken the other, if there had been one to begin with.

Green pockets it and leaves slowly, inhaling the smell of the dreams that live inside the gym. Once he reaches the door, he orders his Arcanine to burn down the place.

The flames burn a familiar kind of red.

* * *

**05.**

Sabrina is ridiculously easy to stomp through.

Blaine is the one that makes him sweat through a cold, robotic gym; Blaine is the one that has him on the palm of his hand.

He hates it. Green is the strongest, Green is the best, and it's not this old man, this blabbering fool that will get him to cave. When he gets to him, his legs are tired and his reasoning is shaded by green blinks of machines that ask him questions so easy he doubts himself. And to be honest, Green was never really good at understanding things like respect and love—because his house is empty and Daisy is the only one who cares about him (but then again she cares about everyone so the effect is diminished).

He still wins, but it feels like he's lost when the man turns to him, gives him the badge and tells him – indirectly – that he will never get far. Green retorts with, "Heh, I'll show you, _old man_."

But it comes out sort of unconvincing.

* * *

**04.**

He only lets him choose first so that he'll have an advantage. At least that's what he tells himself – but it's his grandpa the one who presses Red into choosing one first, and suddenly he remembers hushed conversations painting the corners of his house, conversations about black-haired boys with deep eyes.

"What about _me_?" he asks, coldly, with a nod of the head towards the table. The redness of the Pokéballs is teasing at his eyelids, and his thumb twitches in anticipation as he steps forward, pushing it in his chest. "Don't I get one?"

"Be patient," Oak replies, calmly, his eyes black behind the shadows cast by open windows, "You'll get your turn."

He wants to scream at him, he wants to shout that waiting is what he's been doing all his life, but then his blue eyes catch onto red, dark crimson, and his lips press tightly against each other as he grips the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. He doesn't know why he's so afraid of showing what he's feeling when Red is there. Maybe it's because the crimson in his eyes is scary and logical, too cold for his blue, placid eyes to fight with.

Red steps forward and palms the middle ball, and Green choses some other. The one that looks strongest, because, well, Green's been the best since forever, and he needs to make sure of that, too. So that's why he turns to the boy and (as coldly as he can) challenges him.

When he loses, and Oak actually congratulates Red, it takes Green every inch of his fragile composure not to fall apart in front of them.

* * *

**03.**

He figures that Red notices that Green doesn't give a damn about him anymore, because suddenly he doesn't drop by; he stops hanging out with him, preferring the company of wild Pidgey and stray Rattata. There is no longer the smell of chocolate in his kitchen, and he stops meeting his eyes when Green tries to search for something inside them, letting them roll around fleetingly.

He doesn't know why he feels so betrayed, but once he pushes the smaller boy onto the floor, laughing snidely and walking away, he knows (they both know) that he's reached the point of no return, broken the unsaid law - and suddenly, _friend_ seems a word so meaningless, Green is startled.

"Go cry to your precious Pokémon," he screams, angry and sad; anxiety and unpolished rebellion own just breathing and nurturing his inability to think, living inside his chest. Green kicks sand onto the air as Red runs away, the yellow sand swaying in the hot air like dust.

There are a few drops in the ground.

Green assumes they're from rain. They _must_ be.

* * *

**02.**

When he turns seven, his grandfather starts spilling nonsense about mastery and blood. Green knows that he isn't supposed to be hearing it, but the talk sounds ever-so interesting (and it's been ages since he last saw his sister make that kind of face). The boy slips around the door, leans his head in the wood and sucks on a subtle breath as his grandpa drones on.

"I believe the time is nearing," he says, and Green peers into the lock, "We should consider giving him a Pokémon."

"Grandpa," Daisy answers, slowly, placing a jar of flowers on the table as she sits down. Her hair is braided, and Green tries to remember the last time he'd seen her with her hair decorated and carefully brushed, "Don't rush things. You know as well as I do that despite his father being – well, you know – despite _that_, I think pushing him onto this so soon is a bad idea."

"But he has skill!" Oak presses, spreading his tanned fingers across the table's surface, "The sooner we have him get a Pokémon, the better, who knows if we aren't stumbling across another master? You know as well as I do – "

Daisy suddenly looks very old (much older than fifteen), with lines across her forehead and her mouth into a strict, straight line as she icily glares at him, "It's your call, grandpa. I've said what I had to say. Now it's up to you."

Green feels his chest rise with pride at the thought of his sister and his grandpa fighting over his future; the boy had confidence, but he never really thought of himself as being this important. Oak leans into his chair, sighs discreetly and closes his eyes, nodding to himself.

His sister looks down, "And – what about Green?"

"We'll give one to Red, first. I – I'll think of what to do with Green."

The boy feels something inside him break, and he walks towards his bedroom, uninterested by the rest of the conversation.

He pretends not to feel the growing envy inside him parade around his chest, victorious.

* * *

**01.**

He blinks and the sunshine is trapped in his eyelashes.

The day is fresh and clear in Pallet, and Green walks out of his house with a slight smile on his face; his short legs are not the best means of movement, but he'll manage. His brown hair is cropped, trimmed by his ears, because he thinks that long hair gets in the way of battles, despite the insistence from his sister that he stays better with longer, wilder hair.

He doesn't care about appearances – what kind of respectable six-year-old would?

Green's chubby hand knocks on the wood twice, and while he patiently waits for it to open, he rummages through his pockets, searching. Red's mom opens the door, looks down with a smile and takes his hand. She shakes it with fervor and excitement so uncharacteristic of Red, he is almost suspicious.

"Why hello, Green! Red's upstairs," she says cheerfully, and turns her back to him as she directs towards the kitchen. There is the smell of chocolate in the air, and Green can almost feel the cake on his tongue as he clumsily runs towards the wooden stairs.

Red's face shows up in sight when he nonchalantly opens the door, walks inside and hands him a book full of pictures.

"I thought you'd like it," Green confesses, and shrugs his shoulders, "I stole it from grandpa's lab."

Red glances at him, as if disappointed in him, and Green frowns, crosses his arms, "Hey, don't give me that look! I plan on returning it."

"Thank you," Red croaks out, voice _so_ soft in the room, it practically feels like Green's imagining it. His fingers wrap around the cover, carefully, and he peers inside. His eyes are met with pictures of colorful feathers and scales, the smooth surface of the paper a delightfulness in his hands. The brunette goes around him, sits by his left and laughs.

"Don't sweat it," Green responds, nonchalantly but evocatively, "Isn't that what best friends are for?"

They laugh like children ought to.


End file.
